


knock the ice from my bones

by magicofthepen



Category: Doctor Who & Related Fandoms, Doctor Who (Big Finish Audio), Gallifrey (Big Finish Audio)
Genre: Character Study, Gen, Pre-Gallifrey Audios, Suicidal Thoughts, i promise this is slightly more hopeful than it sounds, identity and existential crises, references to past torture, romana is very alone and very not okay, what's the catch all tag for 'the physical and emotional aftermath of etra prime'
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-03
Updated: 2020-11-03
Packaged: 2021-03-08 23:28:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,082
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27365026
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/magicofthepen/pseuds/magicofthepen
Summary: There was once a prisoner of the Daleks who broke free and ran, blood under her nails and fire in her eyes.I am not Unit 117, she said, and it was victory, it was the end of that story.It was not the end of that story.---A post-Apocalypse Element, pre-Weapon of Choice character study.
Relationships: Irving Braxiatel & Romana, Leela & Romana II, Narvin & Romana II, The Doctor & Romana (Doctor Who)
Comments: 12
Kudos: 16





	knock the ice from my bones

**Author's Note:**

> This fic references The Apocalypse Element, Neverland, Zagreus, Erasure, and Shada (Eighth Doctor version) and includes dialogue from The Apocalypse Element and Zagreus. 
> 
> Title from All the King's Horses by Karmina (which is 100% a post-Etra Prime Romana song).

_There was once a prisoner of the Daleks who broke free and ran, blood under her nails and fire in her eyes._

I am not Unit 117, _she said, and it was victory, it was the end of that story._

_It was not the end of that story._

Gallifrey is too bright, too big — a great stretch of corridor and gleaming walls and the suns burning beyond the dome of the Citadel. The unreality of it slides sideways against her — surely, this is wrong. Surely, this is a dream, a nightmare, a wish. Surely, she never did escape. 

All the dizziness of that empty, empty air — how long has it been, since she walked down a hall that wasn’t cramped and craggy, the plundered insides of a planetoid? Except the question is a lie. Of course she knows how long. Of course she felt every moment of time tick away, all those ticking failures stacking up into a tower destined to crumble under its own weight. 

When this body was new, she escaped a Dalek prison camp within a _day_. 

The Doctor is there, too.

He runs ahead of her, the same old spark in his footsteps no matter how many times his face has changed. He’s in an earlier body than when she last saw him, and she tries not to think about what that means. She tries not to think about how he smiled at her when he dropped her back in her office after Cambridge, after Shada. 

He knew what was coming for her. He _knew._

The Doctor is running, and she can’t keep up, her breath sharp and stabbing, her legs stumbling, her eyes squinting against the too bright, too big, too empty world she called home. Calls home. She’s _home_. 

He steps forward as the Daleks catch up to them, ready to conjure a plan that will get them to safety. They’ve played out this scenario so many times in their lives, the pair of them surrounded by enemies. She trusted him so many times with her life, with her _escape_. 

But this time the confidence in his voice is grating, not endearing. This time she hears the undertones so clearly — the performance, the lie, the guesswork. The gamble. 

He isn’t the only one allowed to gamble with their lives. 

She steps forward, all cold bluff and hot anger, and aims every last bit of herself at the Daleks, her mind burning red-hot into theirs, her hands _shaking_ and what does it matter, what does it matter if she’s consumed by it, if the inferno chars her to ash, what does it _matter_ anymore —

But she’s home, she escaped, she _won_ —

When she collapses, hurtling in and out of unconsciousness, the Doctor catches her. His fingertips spark against her skin, his double heartsbeat echoes against her, and it’s so beautifully, deceptively reassuring. 

She hasn’t been held in over twenty years. She might forgive him almost anything just then.

After it’s over, after the acting President dies in an onslaught of Dalek fire, after she watches a galaxy’s destruction and rebirth in moments, after Gallifrey stands but the Daleks win, she catches the Doctor at his TARDIS.

He’s halfway through the door already, and she fails to shake the knot that settles in her stomach. 

“Doctor, you’re not leaving, surely? There’s so much to be done!”

“And I’m sure you’ll do it splendidly, Madam President.” He smiles, quick, but it washes over her like a cold breeze. 

_Madam President._ The Doctor speaks the title as easily as the Chancellery Guard who escorted her here, but it feels inextricably _wrong_ in his voice. Did he mean it to tease, or to reassure? 

Did he _mean_ it? 

The knot in her stomach tightens. 

“You mess up half the planet, Doctor, and leave just as the clearing up begins,” Vancell says, and an angry, vindictive part of her agrees. 

He really is walking away. Like any other adventure, the day is saved, and off he goes. She is shocked at how much it stings, that he can look right at her, in presidential robes far too big for her emaciated form, and give a cheery wave. He always ran from Gallifrey, she knew, but —

But what? But she hadn’t expected that to mean _her_ , too? She chose this world. She chose this life. She bound herself to Gallifrey as much as anyone _can_ , and why should she fault him for acknowledging it?

_Madam President._

“You will help these worlds recover, won’t you?” the Doctor says, and she tries not to let the bitterness show. Is that all he cares to say to her? 

“I will, Doctor.” She lifts her chin. “Just as I’ll ensure Serifia doesn’t fall to the Daleks. Gallifrey will not tolerate a Dalek Empire on its doorstep. We’ll never be defenseless again.”

She means it deeply, desperately. There is a new weight on her shoulders, a responsibility to protect this world and all the others that could be ravaged by Daleks if they manage to reign throughout that freshly burned galaxy. 

The Doctor can give an inspirational quip about life winning in the end, but that’s all he will do. She swallows and refuses to acknowledge the burning in her eyes. It’s fine. She doesn’t _need_ his help.

But as the sound of the TARDIS dematerialization fades away, she can't help but think of Tara, of Atrios, of the slow process of realizing that yes, he would always come back for her, and she for him. She thinks of Paris, of the way her universe was so at peace for a moment, both of them cradled in a heartsbeat of joy before the latest alien plot kicked off. She thinks of how she had trusted so easily in his friendship, once. 

She clenches her jaw, banishes the thoughts, and marches back into the heart of the Citadel. 

_There was once a president who was locked underground for twenty years. She escaped, and the darkness never touched her again._

She shakes off the murmurs of the Chancellery Guard and ignores the wide eyes of the Cardinals. Whether they are shaken from the breach of their defenses or shocked at the sight of their old President isn’t important. What matters is that they _act_. 

The communications links flicker before her — transduction barrier technicians, time ship controllers, members of the High Council. The fleet of rescue ships descends on the mangled remains of Archetryx and Etra Prime, on the Monan Host, and she watches the reports come in, the monitoring equipment blink and whir. Several Cardinals were outraged at the _waste_ of resources, at the Time Lords daring to spare their ships to help other worlds when their own is still stumbling back to its feet. But it was rather invigorating to realize that after twenty years of Dalek energy blasts echoing around her, no Time Lord could possibly dream of intimidating her. 

The technicians strengthen Gallifrey’s defenses, build new layers of security into the contortions of time and space that protect their world. She imagines that same strength sinking into her own skin. 

She ignores how her muscles tremble, how her head spins after — how long has it been, since her return? Since the high collar of the Presidency dropped back on her shoulders, pressing against her brittle bones like it wants to snap them? She should know, she has always known, but her head _aches_ —

She’s disconnected from their hive mind, she’s far away from the screech of their guns, she’s home, she’s safe, it’s _over_.

“I’m fine,” she snaps at the guard who steps forward when she grimaces, one hand pressed to her forehead. 

“It’s nothing,” she insists to the Cardinal who stares at her in concern after she jumps and nearly trips on her feet because she could have sworn —

“Keep going,” she tells the time controllers, the fleet, the technicians, the politicians, until she sways and stumbles and sees nothing at all. 

She wakes in the dark, alone. 

It sweeps over her, chokes her, that suffocating blackness that had become a second skin on Etra Prime. Every cell in her body aches, the metal frame of the bed presses against her when she tries to roll over. It’s too cold, too close to stone, and her hearts thunder in her chest, a twenty year adrenaline rush that’s never faded. 

There’s a dull sound, some sort of alarm, and the door opens. The lights flicker on and that hurts too — too bright, always too bright, and the rooms always too empty and vast, like she’s teetering on the edge of a cliff, on the edge of a fall. 

She shoves herself up, ignoring the shake of her arms and the roiling nausea of her stomach. She will always face whatever comes through her door with open eyes. 

(If she dies in that prison, _when_ she dies in that prison, it will be with her head held high.) 

The medical attendant doesn’t meet her eyes. 

“Madam President,” he murmurs, and she despises the pity in his voice. “You’re awake.”

“Am I paying you for these sorts of observations?”

“Forgive me, but you have been unconscious for the past sixteen spans. Now if you would — ”

“ _Sixteen_?” She swings her legs towards the edge of the bed, ignoring how it _hurts_ , how everything hurts. “The extraction missions must have made progress, I need to speak to Cardinal — ”

“What you _need_ to do, Madam President, is lie down before you collapse again.” The attendant looks almost startled at the strength of his own words, and for a moment she admires that he dared to contradict her. But she does _not_ need to be coddled. 

“It was a fluke,” she insists. “It won’t happen again.”

“With all due respect, Madam President, I don’t believe you specialized in medical science during your time at the Academy.” The attendant sighs. “Please lie down, or we’ll both have to deal with the embarrassment of calling in the Chancellery Guard.”

“You would _threaten_ — ”

“It isn’t a threat. It’s a procedure.” He sounds tired. “And I would rather get through the several _medical_ procedures on my list as quickly as possible, and I’m certain you would, too.”

She does lie down, but only after another five microspans of argument.

The assumption that she will be out of this medical bay shortly is dispelled. Days pass, one after the next, and she can feel the remaining scraps of control she holds slipping away. 

They are all watching her. Well. They are all watching the Lord High President of Gallifrey, and isn’t that the same thing? Every medical professional, every advisor that sweeps through the doors, every politician on the comms channels. They’re all shocked expressions that quickly turn to blankness or hastily cleared throats or pitying sighs or smothered smirks. 

_Should she regenerate?_ The question lingers in her mind, growing more appealing with each passing day. Shake off the aches of this battered body. Shake off the echoes lurking in her mind. Rise out of the ashes, reborn, triumphant.

But _would_ regeneration be a triumph? None of her injuries are deadly. If she burns herself into ash without a reason, won’t it be like surrendering?

Instead she lifts her chin, colder and colder. They are waiting for her to stumble, so she walks slowly across the room, every step deliberate. 

Instead, she makes herself steel. 

Two weeks later, the doctors stop monitoring her so closely and let her return to her rooms in the presidential palace. 

She hasn’t set foot in them since Etra Prime. There were too many imminent worries after the invasion for her to bother visiting. 

When she walks through the doors, one careful step after the next, the back of her mind prickles. The acting President didn’t change much, perhaps assuming he would be able to step back into retirement shortly. The furniture, the occasional art piece on the walls — it’s so familiar, like stepping into an old painting.

She remembers the first time she stepped through these doors, still half-dizzy from her inauguration, still feeling the weight and power of her undertaking sink in around her. The young once-renegade who came home and believed that she could make a difference, believed the Presidency was just a different kind of adventure than the ones she’d led out in the universe. 

As she read her first memos (there, in that chair) or untangled the many ceremonial robes of her office (over there, behind that door), she worried that this position would be too boring, more dreary than she had hoped. Could she really shake up the stagnancy that she had once fled from? Could she really bring some much needed change and upheaval to this dull, _safe_ world?

Is any part of that hopeless idealist still left in her? 

A metallic whirring cuts through her thoughts, and she flinches, eyes darting to exits and potential weapons before a part of her _remembers_ that sound. 

“Mistress?”

“K9?” 

Twenty years. He’s still here.

K9 rolls out onto the carpets of her sitting room and cheerfully explains how the interim president had his circuits maintained and found his databanks of knowledge useful at times for dealing with a minor crisis. She doesn’t speak for a full microspan. 

Then she lets herself stumble, fall to her knees to reach out one hand to the robot dog who was her only companion for so many years. There is something bubbling in her throat that she can’t name, something she hasn’t let herself feel in so _long_. She presses a hand to his cool metal exterior and blinks and blinks.

“Mistress? Is something wrong?”

She shakes her head, but her eyes are burning and her chest is tight and she buries her face in her arms.

“I missed you,” she whispers, her voice breaking at last, “I _missed_ you.” And here in her old rooms, next to the only old friend she has left, she cries for the first time since Etra Prime.

The High Council balks at her first agenda. The measures against the Dalek occupation of Serifia are too retaliatory, the rebuilding efforts outside of Gallifrey are too expensive, the internal reforms are too unnecessary. Not _every_ council member shies away from action, but enough to stall a majority of items on her agenda.

Afterwards, she has two private meetings: one planned and one accidental.

In the first, she stares down at the datapad in front of her with a single raised eyebrow before casting the same cool look at the CIA Coordinator on the other side of her desk.

“You’ve been busy.”

“I shall take your surprise as a compliment.” Vancell matches her coolness, fingers laced together. “The less most people are aware of the CIA’s activities, the better, wouldn’t you say?”

She glances back down at the supply requisitions and agent reports and summary of Matrix records. “I wouldn’t say _I_ am most people, Coordinator.”

“Which is why I called this meeting. Our operations are a far cry from what most of the High Council would support, true, but the universe is changing. New enemies, new allies — we must be prepared for what the future holds.”

“Then it seems we are in agreement.” She waits, the punctuation at the end of that sentence hinting at a question mark. There must be more to this exchange than information. 

_What is it you want, Vancell?_

He meets her eyes, a flash of acknowledgement. “I am glad to hear it. The Agency and the Office of the President work best when our goals for Gallifrey align. A problem is best attacked from multiple angles.”

“A basic enough principle. And what _exactly_ are you suggesting for my plan of attack?”

Vancell shrugs. “I’m not a politician.”

“You sit on the High Council.”

“And I try to refrain from involving myself in the squabbling of the chapters. No, I’m not here to offer you _advice._ ”

The opening is obvious, but she takes it anyway, frustration and curiosity itching under her skin. “Then why _are_ you here, Coordinator?”

If she didn’t know better, she would say that Vancell almost smiled. 

“You were always a bold choice for President, my Lady. Your resumé is unusual, the reforms you proposed as far back as your appointment even more so. You scorn the insular politics that have plagued our world for so long.”

“Do you have a point?”

“Your agenda. How different is it from the one you planned to bring forward before your imprisonment on Etra Prime?”

She does not flinch. She _doesn’t_ , but it takes more effort than she would have liked. Oh, she’s discussed Etra Prime and Archetryx with politicians frequently in the past weeks, but always in the frame of next steps, actions to be taken, a crisis outside of their world. Her doctors are the only ones who dare speak of it personally, and even then it makes her skin crawl. 

She wants them to forget that she was ever gone, forget that she was ever weak enough to be captured, forget that the dark still feels like an enemy, forget that the scrape of metal still drives her pulses into a frantic pace. 

She swallows imperceptibly. “It is based around similar action items, yes. Of course, with additional priorities given the recent Dalek threat.”

Vancell shakes his head, a flicker of condescension in his eyes. “I’m afraid Gallifrey is not the same planet it was twenty years ago.”

“I know that,” she snaps.

“Do you? Are you sure that this _particular_ set of proposals is the fight you want to have? What _are_ you seeking to accomplish with your Presidency?”

“I — ”

Vancell’s commlink buzzes, and his eyes dart down. “Forgive me, Madam President. I have a mission to oversee.” He stands, hands clasped firmly behind his back. She follows, their eyes meeting once more. “But we can resume this conversation at another point, if you wish.”

“Of course. Coordinator.” She watches him leave the room, the datapad of information still open on her desk, the question of whether he was offering support or a warning still hovering in the air.

The second occurs half a span later. The visitor calls in as she’s trying in vain to sort through the abundance of reports sent to her in the past three days. ( _Why_ does she need to know about the results of the latest ecological survey of Mount Caden?)

“Cardinal Braxiatel, yes? To what do I owe the pleasure?” She doesn’t quite manage to keep the exhausted irritation out of her voice.

“Madam President. I am here to deliver a few messages — first, from the chapter heads, well wishes and a general expression of gratefulness of your return to — ”

She waves a hand. “Yes, yes, I’ve had enough kind well wishes for the next — well, for the next couple decades at least.”

“I thought you might say that.” Braxiatel smiles at her, and she’s startled by the wry tone in his voice. It’s not altogether unpleasant. 

“Is that why you had none for me, Cardinal?” 

“Naturally, my Lady. But of course, if you wish it, I will be happy to — ” 

“Please, do refrain from finishing that sentence.”

His eyes flash in amusement.

She remembers him generally from — from Before. He had advocated for her ascension to the Presidency in spite of her youth and limited experience on the High Council. He was one of the few Cardinals who actually saw value in travel and experience beyond the skies of Gallifrey. Perhaps that is why she gestures to the seat in front of her desk that the Coordinator recently vacated. 

“I am surprised to hear the Council is bothering to offer kind words. They certainly didn’t have any to spare at today’s meeting.”

“Ah. Well.” Braxiatel settles himself into the chair in one smooth motion. “Cardinal Marissa is known for her love of the status quo, Cardinal Keller favors shows of strengths, but only if they don’t invite retaliation, Cardinal Taken is a terribly thick academic at hearts — ”

“And you?” 

The corner of his mouth quirks. “My voice does not carry the weight of a High Council member, I’m afraid.”

“So you _do_ support the aid to worlds bordering Serifia? And the proposed treaty with the Monans?”

“And the opening of Gallifreyan institutions to offworlders?” Braxiatel half-smiles at her now, and the look in his eyes is the opposite of Vancell’s condescension. There’s something strangely _affectionate_ about it.

“Well, to name a few.”

“Ah, but that’s exactly the problem, isn’t it? A few too _many_ , the High Council members would say.”

 _Not all of them_ , she doesn’t say, because Vancell’s position remains uncertain. And there _is_ an opportunity there — the potential to work with the CIA to achieve some of her goals, the ability to sidestep the processes of the High Council. The central bureaucracy isn’t as well suited to handle the measures they will need to prevent the Daleks from achieving their empire. And the CIA offers potential for diplomatic back channels, should she need them. 

But that is a consideration for another time. 

“We are _Time Lords_ , we are certainly intellectually capable of handling more than one diplomatic and societal problem at once.”

“True, my Lady. The question is, can your presidency handle more than one political problem at once?” 

She purses her lips. The driving force behind her taking the position was to tackle challenges head on, open up Gallifrey to the greater universe, dismantle their insistence on universal control of time travel. _Slow down, play the game_ — that’s the opposite of what she planned to do.

And yet, Braxiatel does have a point. Her first agenda may have been bold, but it lacked a certain...pragmatic subtlety. When she first stepped into the Presidency, she prided herself on her vision, but she also planned to get results. 

Her eyes flick over him once, carefully. A question hovers on the tip of her tongue, and yet how well does she know him, really? Why is she inclined to trust him? Is it simply his connection to the Doctor, which should be irrelevant? Or is it —

Or is it the fact that he is the only Cardinal who never spoke to her when she was sick and struggling in the medbay. The only one who never offered her any wishes of good health or recovery. The only one who looks at her like he’s waiting for her to rise instead of fall, like he still sees the idealistic politician she once was and the successful president she can still become. 

_Faith._ It sweeps over her in a dizzying rush, intoxicating and terrifying at the same time.

She leans forward, decided. “And what would be your advice?” 

_There was once a president who was locked underground for twenty years. She escaped, and the darkness tried to follow, but she rose above it._

For a time, it’s as if she’s stepped back into that old painting. 

The collar on her shoulders starts to feel familiar again. The path from her office to the Panopticon becomes well-trodden. She learns what the High Council members will compromise on, what political levers she can tip to get the votes she needs. She wins victories, small at first, but they add up. A reorganization of the Council meeting process — making them not miserably dull is far from anyone’s power, but she can at least nudge them towards more productive discussions. A delegation of engineers sent to the Monan Host to help with its rebuilding efforts. Academic conferences between representatives of the temporal powers that started small, but are already leading to bold new research into the workings of time. 

True, she is more conscious of security matters than she ever was in her first months in office. She keeps more regularly in touch with Coordinator Vancell, ensuring Gallifrey’s enemies don’t become too difficult to control. But she knows the answer to Vancell’s question. The presidency is exactly as it once was: a new adventure. She is seeking to accomplish the same thing as Before: transforming Gallifrey into a better world, with a new place in the universe. She can ignore her time away, ignore the scars that still linger on her skin. They aren’t important, not to the job she needs to do here and now. 

That’s what she tells herself, at least, and doesn’t that make it true?

The briefing starts much like all the others, but as Vancell slides the latest notes across the desk to her, she can already see in his eyes that something has changed. More than that — she can _feel_ the twist in the timelines, a strange tilting, suffocating sensation that settles around her neck.

“The Daleks,” Coordinator Vancell says, “are trapped in a time loop.”

“I’m sorry?”

“Madam President, you _do_ know what — ”

“ _Yes,_ Coordinator, I know what a time loop is. But — the Daleks? _All_ of them? _How_?”

He gives her a look that somehow names a specific Time Lord without saying a word. 

“I will review the details in a moment, but first, you should understand this. The Daleks are entirely under Time Lord control.”

She blinks at him, the implications of his statement taking far too long to sink into her skin. _Entirely under_ her _control_.

“There is an opportunity here,” Vancell says, slow and careful. 

She is still, and a coldness worms its way deep under her skin, thrumming through her bloodstream. The Daleks are nothing but destruction, the dark to every light in the universe. And here they are, trapped at last. 

Could it really be so easy?

“Coordinator.” She pushes the datapad to the center of the desk. “I think you had better review the details now.”

The next meeting isn’t long after. Vancell doesn’t sit this time, every line in his shoulders tense. 

“Waves of time distortions,” she repeats. “Does this have anything to do with the Daleks — ”

“Indirectly. We’re tracing a break in chronology that originated on Earth in the 1930s, local time.”

“Earth?”

Vancell sighs. “Earth. Then deep space in 2503, then Earth in 2294, 2003, 1938 — ”

The implications sink in. “How bad is the break?”

“We’re assessing that now, Madam President. But in the meantime — when was the last time you consulted the Matrix?”

It starts like this: dates and times disjointed, blank spaces that don’t make sense. It starts like this: a dread seeping into every Matrix projection she sees, flashes of possibility that blink and whir, whisper and shriek. 

It starts like this: Two days after her meeting with Vancell, a vision rises up before her. A cruel future that is shockingly vivid, terrifyingly certain. _Her_ future. 

For the first time, her nightmares whisper: _Imperiatrix_.

The next time she sees the Doctor after Etra Prime, it’s after authorizing the CIA to drag him to Gallifrey against his will. 

He has a new friend, of course. A companion he would run to the end of the universe for, defy the Time Lords for. Of course.

The first time she sees his face, something in her hearts aches against her will. This is the Doctor who materialized in her office and insisted they have one more adventure, eyes wide and excited, like an overeager puppy. More of a puppy than K9, who certainly lacked enthusiasm for their Earthbound excursion. 

He had grinned at her then, a ridiculous grin that had melted the last of her resistance. She had sighed and rolled her eyes, but when he took her hand it felt so natural, so easy, and she couldn’t help but smile back. She couldn’t help but _hope_ that even though their paths in life had diverged, maybe they could hold onto that same old friendship. 

He’s not smiling now. His eyes are cold, steady, accusing. She shows him the Matrix prophecy because she knows she should, to convince him how high the stakes are. But the way he looks at her when he tumbles out of the vision —

She thought it hurt to hear the words _Madam President_ so carelessly on his tongue. But this is worse — this time, all he is seeing is that twisted Matrix future, layered on top of her. She can see the thought in his eyes: maybe they’re not so different after all, that future Imperiatrix and the Time Lord President standing in front of him. 

He calls her an old friend, and it sounds disingenuous, hollow. 

Sometimes, the Doctor looks at her like she never came back from Etra Prime. Sometimes, she wonders if he’s right.

Vancell betrays her. 

What should she have expected, returning to Gallifrey after all these years? That she would truly be welcomed back with open arms? That she wouldn’t have just as many enemies at home, enemies who wished she _had_ died in that prison?

 _I’m afraid Gallifrey is not the same planet it was twenty years ago._ It _was_ a warning. A threat. 

She lifts her chin, steel to the end. She won’t give Vancell, or any of the never-spirits, the satisfaction of seeing her shake. 

(She lost faith that Gallifrey would save her sometime during those sleepless, painful nights. But she is learning, day by day, that there are always scraps of trust that linger even when they shouldn’t, desperate hopes that someone _does_ care, that someone _can_ help. There is always more to break.) 

Even when Vancell stands beside her in the end, even when he pays for that act with his life, the cold sting never leaves. 

She tried so hard to continue where she left off, to wipe the last twenty years clean. To be that bright young President who believed in a better world, to convince everyone around her that _Romana_ still existed.

But that bright young President was naïve enough to let herself get captured, and worse, to believe that someone else would save her. She let her guard drop twenty years ago. She should never have let it down again. 

_There was once a president who was locked underground until there was no time other than this moment, and the last, and the next. She escaped, but the darkness came with her._

Braxiatel is the one to deliver the shortlist of names for CIA Coordinator. She’s grown used to his appearances in her office, and that realization pricks at her. Political allies are useful and necessary, of course, but Braxiatel’s charm makes it altogether too easy to slip into a familiar banter when he visits. She can’t afford to forget that she is the President of Gallifrey, to him and to everyone, first and always. And, as the reason for his visit reminds her, loyalty is so easily broken. 

She raises an eyebrow at the datapad. It’s a very short list. 

“Vancell didn’t have a Deputy Coordinator, but he did have several protégés over his time at the Agency. Two of these potential successors were available until recently, when one of them died rather suddenly.” Braxiatel’s voice is carefully neutral. She thinks of a time ship explosion, a wash of anti-time energy, and swallows. “And in a tumultuous time such as this, I assume you want an important appointment like this to go over smoothly.”

“Do you know anything about this...Narvinectralonum?” 

A series of indecipherable expressions flit across Braxiatel’s face before he says simply, “He’ll do.”

She snorts. “A rousing endorsement.”

“He doesn’t really need my endorsement, my Lady.”

“No, of course not. Thank you, Cardinal.”

Braxiatel inclines his head and turns to leave. His eyes catch hers for a moment and there’s an echo of something he’s not saying. 

There’s always something they’re not saying, of course, in the aftermath of the anti-time incident. She suspects Braxiatel knows more than he lets on about the events of that day — she’s fairly sure he knows about nearly everything that happens on Gallifrey, even if he gives the appearance of staying above it all. And it did involve —

Well. They don’t discuss any losses that occurred leaving the never-world. They don’t discuss the TARDIS locked away under the highest level of quarantine she can muster. 

Most days she doesn’t even think about it. (Or at least that’s what she tells herself, and isn’t that the same — )

She swallows and sinks back into her chair, methodically shoving every stupid, nostalgic thought into a dusty, forgotten corner of her mind. It doesn’t matter that the Doctor’s dead. He stopped being a part of her life long ago, really, and she _doesn’t_ miss him. 

She _can’t_ miss him. The part of her that he gave a damn about is long gone, and now all she has is her sworn oath to Gallifrey and whatever cruel future time is nudging her towards.

_Enough._

K9 scoots out of the way of her feet, as she skims the biography and career background in front of her. The presumptive Coordinator has an extensive resumé in the Agency. He did report directly to Vancell for many years, even before Vancell ran the Agency, which does not inspire confidence. But it’s not as if she expects much from the CIA other than moderately illegal schemes and political backstabbing. It’s not as if she will trust _anyone_ who fills Vancell’s position, no matter what their record is. 

“Well, K9.” She flicks open her schedule for the day with a sigh. “I suppose I better meet my new Coordinator.” 

Narvin is not, in fact, much like Vancell.

The stillness with which Vancell commanded a room, the bold flash in his eyes when he leaned forward with a whisper ( _There is an opportunity here_ ), the anger is his voice when he decried her for being insufficiently radical — the new Coordinator has none of that. He’s so evidently a bureaucrat, perhaps an adequate choice to work within an organization, to blend in the background, but not an obvious one to lead it. 

It isn’t a bad thing, of course, to have a wholly uncharismatic leader of her spy agency. At least she doesn’t have to worry about accidentally liking him.

“I know that you requested Coordinator Vancell meet with you weekly to discuss...alternative options,” he says, once the base introductions and preliminary inquiries have been done away with. “Backchannels, progress reports.”

“That won’t be necessary.”

“As you wish, Madam President, but if I may ask — ”

“Why? I would assume it’s rather obvious. You’re supposed to be an intelligent Time Lord, Coordinator, so do tell me — do you think I’m interested in maintaining close ties with the CIA, after you tried to depose me?”

“Madam President, it was not the _CIA_ who — ”

“Oh? Just your dearly departed Coordinator and several of his underlings. Pity you didn’t happen to be there during that mission.”

“We may have our disagreements, but if you are questioning my _loyalty_ — ”

“Coordinator, _your_ Agency may deal in dishonesty, but I’ve found it suits me well to be forthcoming.” She takes a step forward, her heavy collar digging into her shoulders. “I have no intention of working with the CIA more than is strictly necessary. I do expect that you do your job to your best of your ability. I do expect that you keep me informed of any necessary developments that I should know about to do _my_ job, and I will extend the same courtesy to you. But I don’t want to see you in my office unless I need to.”

Narvin’s face is nearly a perfect mask, but she can glimpse the ripple of irritation. “Of course, Madam President.”

“Good.” She turns back towards her desk, and the next round of reports queued up. “I will need a follow up report on the Charlotte Pollard case — have it to me by the end of the week.”

“Certainly. But Madam President — ”

She glances back, eyebrows raised. 

“I expect you to do your job to the best of your ability, as well.”

“Are you implying — ”

“I am implying nothing,” Narvin interrupts. “Except that your duty, like mine, is first and foremost to protect and serve Gallifrey. As long as we are both working to achieve that goal, I can’t imagine we will have any problems.”

Her eyes narrow.

“Good,” she snaps. “I’ll speak to you at the end of the week when your report is finished.” Stepping behind her desk, she runs her fingertips along the edge, a restless gesture. 

“You are dismissed.” 

Her routine is mechanical. Meetings, calls, public appearances. Bills, reports, memos. Negotiations, arguments, flattery. One corridor, then the next, then the next.

Outside her window, mountains rise in the distance, great fields of red grass sweep out before her. All that open space, it still feels dizzying. Surreal. 

The key action items of her administration fall out of discussion one by one. Education reform is stuck in endless debate over immigration processing. It’s unlikely to resurface for years at this rate. Time technology treaty attempts are scrapped, bogged down in in-fighting amongst the Time Lords and the other Temporal Powers. The monitoring of Dalek encroachment falls out of favor as the Daleks are held in temporal stasis, plucked out of chronology. 

Waiting for her to decide.

Her visits to the Matrix become increasingly frequent. Increasingly desperate, some might say. But even though anti-time is contained (they _won_ , they’re _safe_ ), the whispers are still there, nudging at the corners of her mind.

 _You will fall,_ they say. _You will rise again, reborn from the devastation of your enemies._

 _I don’t believe in destiny_ , she tells them, except what is destiny but seeing time in the wrong order?

Once, she finds herself in the TARDIS bay late in the evening. The attendant doesn’t question her, of course he doesn’t. Who would question the president?

She closes her eyes, soaks it in, the familiar hum of timeships waiting for the moment when they can slip out into the Vortex, spiral through the timelines. Fly free at last. Do what they were made to do.

What was she made to do? What is she meant to do?

Her footsteps echo too loudly. Is she drawing suspicion, striding down these walls so late at night? Stopping to hover in front of one of the newer models, and it’s right there, gleaming in front of her, and no one ever questions the president — 

She clenches her fists, exhales to clear the rush of temporal excitement from her mind. Now isn’t the time for foolishness. 

But maybe it helps to remember, sometimes. To remember what it was like to be free. 

_There was once a president who was locked underground until she wished they would just get on with it and kill her._

_She never really escaped._

She never _enjoys_ meeting with Narvin, but once the day’s topic of conversation shifts to her recently floated proposal of banning the mind probe, her patience rapidly deteriorates. 

“The CIA shouldn’t need to stoop to that kind of barbaric torture to get results, Coordinator. Don’t you have a team of elite agents at your disposal?”

“My agents are well-trained, yes, but one of Gallifrey’s strengths, as I’m sure you’ll agree, is our superior technological resources. It would be….unproductive to deliberately limit these resources simply out of a sense of squeamishness.” Narvin’s hands are clasped behind his back, and he is very obviously gritting his teeth. 

“ _Squeamishness_?” 

_Do you know what it’s like_ , she doesn’t say, _to have some twisted technology burrowing into your brain, ripping through your thoughts until you don’t know who you are anymore? Do you know what it’s like to try to regain your breath in the darkness, try to convince yourself that you’re even real? Do you know what it’s like to wonder if you’ll ever know how much they took from you?_

There’s an awkward pause in the conversation, and she wonders if Narvin has any inkling that he’s overstepped. Perhaps from the CIA’s perspective, presidents come and presidents go and it doesn’t really matter if one disappears for twenty years even though caring about that sort of thing should be their _job_ — 

She banishes that thought, controls her breath. “I’m afraid it doesn’t matter what you do or do not find _unproductive_ , Narvin. That legislation is subject to the entirety of the High Council’s approval, not just yours.”

The anger in his eyes is abundantly clear, but he dips his head. “It is, Madam President. What _isn’t_ is your demand that the CIA decommission the Oubliette of Eternity.”

She nearly leaps to her feet at that, but settles for gripping the arms of her chair. “I’m _sorry_?”

“The very existence of the Oubliette is classified. You yourself weren’t aware of its continued use until recently — ”

“Until I was nearly permanently trapped in the place where its victims are sent, and by _your_ former Coordinator, no less? Yes, it rings a bell.”

She can practically hear his jaw grind. “Madam President, the existence of the Oubliette is not subject to High Council approval because the High Council _cannot_ know of its existence. This has always been true.”

“Oh, very well then, we can do this the easy way. As President of Gallifrey — ”

“ — you don’t have universal jurisdiction over the CIA — ”

“ — in case you weren’t aware, Coordinator, you work for me and I _can_ have you replaced — ”

“ — and who at the CIA could you possibly appoint that would be willing to cooperate with such a blatant misuse of presidential power — ”

“ _Blatant misuse of power_. And what exactly would you call the existence of the Oubliette of Eternity?”

Narvin takes a deep breath. “A safeguard.”

“A safeguard.”

“Against dangerous individuals. Dangerous worlds. Factors that could lead to the unraveling of the Web of Time itself.”

“Really.”

Narvin crosses the room until he stands on the other side of her desk. In one motion, she snaps to her feet with a glare. 

“Have you heard of the planet Bellescon?” he says.

“Should I have?”

“Its people invented a form of time travel. A ring that allows the wearer to travel back on another person’s timeline, alter any events they wish. They used it to dispose of unwanted rivals, disrupt technological developments — ”

“And this is different from what the CIA does, how exactly?” 

“The _difference_ is that we understand the importance of preserving the Web of Time. Our interventions are done for the greater good of Gallifrey, and we know enough to maintain the integrity of the timelines when we do so. Their interventions were solely for personal gain and caused disruption in the stability of time itself.”

“Caused? As in, ‘are not currently causing’?”

Narvin inclines his head. “As an agent, I was...able to temporarily confiscate the technology. But I’m afraid there is nothing to stop them from trying again. Their very presence threatens universal chaos.”

“Are you saying.” She stills, her breath sticking in her throat. “You want to erase an entire _planet_ from history?”

“Sometimes lives have to be sacrificed for the good of the universe, as unfortunate as it may seem.”

“And you really think I would sanction this?”

“As I said, Madam President, it isn’t really your decision. But given that you now know of the existence of the Oubliette, it seemed prudent to seek permission, of sorts. As a token of good faith. And so you understand why the device is necessary, even if it has, perhaps, been overused in the past.”

She shakes her head. Her hands are now curled around the edge of her desk, gripping it just as tightly as she had the arms of her chair. Something cold has lodged its way between her hearts, something icy and still and certain.

She knows what she has to do, to play this game. To win. 

“The Oubliette will be decommissioned, Narvin,” she says quietly. “It has removed countless people unjustly from history, and that practice cannot and will not be allowed to continue. If you oppose its elimination, I will have you removed. If your successor does, so on and so forth, and if that requires me to reveal its existence to the public, so be it.”

“There would be chaos, Madam President! Every Time Lord would want to access the time-sealed records, to double check that no one they knew was erased. That kind of instability on Gallifrey — ”

“And I’m sure neither of us wants it to come to that.” The calmness in her voice is unnerving, even to her. But he’s right, of course he is. If she escalates this fight, again and again, it will not change anything. If she needs the cooperation of the CIA to discontinue the use of the Oubliette, then she will have to give him reason to cooperate. “So, Narvin. I am offering you a deal, and I suggest, for both our sakes and for the sake of Gallifrey, that you take it.”

She speaks and the words drop at her feet, heavy and hollow. “I will authorize the use of the Oubliette of Eternity, one last time, on your requested target. But it will be in a time locked space, one where you and I can remember what has been done.” _And who has been lost._ “And then I will personally oversee its decommission, and it will _never_ be used again.”

Narvin stares at her. It’s difficult to read the expression on his face, but just for a moment, she detects a hint of triumph in his eyes, and it hits her — did he really intend on continuing the use of the Oubliette? Or, knowing that its days were inevitably numbered now that it had been exposed, did he only want her agreement to this last dispersal?

“Agreed,” he says swiftly, with just enough irritation in his voice that she could believe this isn’t what he wanted all along. 

She drops her hands behind her desk and tells herself they do not shake. She tells herself she can’t hear them, the swelling murmurs and shrieks of the never-people surrounding her, their hunger, their _anger_. 

“Agreed,” she whispers hoarsely. 

_There once was a president who ruled time itself. A billion lives vanished at her word, and when she smiled it was ice._

The Lord High President of Gallifrey doesn’t brood. She doesn’t mope or despair. She certainly doesn’t sulk. 

She may, however, on occasion sit in her bedroom with the lights on, the blankets tugged around her shoulders, and complain at length about her day to one very intelligent if not especially sympathetic metal dog. She may also, at the same time, pretend her hearts aren’t racing, a thump of charged adrenaline with nowhere to go. She may pretend that she doesn’t feel more exhausted and yet more restless than she’s been since Etra Prime.

Is it a gift or a curse, to remember? To watch the last use of the Oubliette, watch a world of voices vanish in a moment, as simple as cutting a ribbon. At least she has the advantage over Sentris of knowing exactly how much blood is on her hands, exactly how many souls will weigh on her conscience. But is it worse, to understand exactly what fate you are condemning these people to and do it anyway? Because it’s politically expedient? Because it will save more lives, if you concede this once to stop the unmaking of any more worlds? Couldn’t Sentris justify her actions too?

She watches the component parts of the Oubliette be dismantled and destroyed. She watches the last chance of disappearing from history fall apart in front of her, and a cowardly kind of longing twists inside her, the desire to step into oblivion flaring brighter than ever. (Is it really cowardice if it means no one else gets hurt? If it means you can, in some way, erase your crimes?)

The days blur from one to the next. The nights as well, considering she doesn’t spend much time asleep. 

When she does manage to doze off, her dreams are both creative and consistent. Variations on a theme. How many times can she watch herself burn the planets around her? How many times can she watch herself freeze, that coldness her gut creeping through her hearts until they shatter? 

She still wakes in the night entirely certain she’s about to be murdered. That fear will never truly fade for the rest of her lives.

_There once was an Imperiatrix, carved out of a broken woman whose first crime was believing she could be more than what the Time Lords — the Daleks — the Time Lords — made of her._

The time lock still waits. A decision still needs to be made.

The other Temporal Powers insist it shouldn’t be _Gallifrey’s_ decision, no matter which side of the argument they personally favor. Some insist the Daleks aren’t particularly necessary to chronology. Others point out they may well be, but isn’t it worth the risk to excise their kind from all of creation?

If the Daleks never existed, who would she be? A young student who took to the stars and decided the whole universe was worth knowing? An experienced traveler who said that staying behind was worthwhile, too? A bold politician who believed that where you're from might be just as important as where you’re going? What would people mean, when they said Madam President, daughter of Heartshaven, _Romana_? 

If she is destined to be the villain of this story, would she be the hero in a different one? 

The walls of the presidential suite trap sound. If she screams, no one can hear. If she paces into the hours of the morning, feet wearing the same tired tracks on her rugs, no one will know. 

If she tells herself a story, one where she made the right choices, where she didn’t fail, wasn’t trapped, never disappointed anyone who believed in her — if she tells herself a pretty lie because sometimes it’s the only thing keeping her breathing, who will ever care? 

_There was once a Time Lord who believed she could change her tired old planet, and she did._

_There was once a Time Lord who believed she could change her tired old planet. She disappeared quietly, before anyone even realized she was gone._

She isn’t expecting anything to change from the monotony she’s fallen into, the way time binds and drags and won’t let go. Perhaps Gallifrey _was_ a trap all along, and she walked right back into these wide, empty corridors and called it safety. 

She isn’t expecting anything to change, but maybe part of her is hoping. A risky mission, an assassin in the night — adrenaline or death, does it matter which? Anything that will crack through the thick stench of stagnancy and sleeplessness.

She certainly isn’t expecting that the call will come from the single human resident of Gallifrey, who has somehow managed to sneak into the presidential office without anyone noticing. 

Her eyebrows raise, her voice snaps — cold condescension, airy dismissiveness. But as she stands, she can _feel_ the world shift around her — a hint of danger, a quiet crumbling disruption.

Is today the end of something? 

She was raised a well-behaved, respectable Time Lady. She learned to be a disobedient meddler. And then she came home and tried to fit those pieces together, as if some whole self was hiding underneath the cracks. 

After all those moments, her timeline a wreckage of victories and atrocities, here she stands, eye to eye with Gallifrey’s founder. 

Rassilon dismisses her entirely.

She is a nuisance. A bureaucratic obstacle to clear in his own quest for power. _Your presidency has been no worse than any other of the last hundred thousand years._

She stands, her robes thick and heavy on her shoulders, her collar digging down into her skin. The trappings of the presidency is all he wants, not the person underneath. ( _Is_ there a person underneath?) It could have been anyone in her place. (Does it matter, that it isn’t just anyone? Does it matter, that it’s _her_ here today?) 

“All you needed from me was to transport Leela past the forcefield about the Death Zone surrounding your tower, as is my Presidential privilege.” Her voice rises, and _oh_ , she’s angry. That shouldn’t feel new, but it does, it _is_. It isn’t a cold anger, stiff and constricting around her throat, slowly cracking her hearts to pieces. It’s the kind of anger that charred through her when she stared down the Daleks. The kind of anger that says, you will _not_ win, not without a fight, because how _dare_ you _use_ me. Because how dare you not _see_ me. 

“All you needed from Leela was an obliging courier to bring you your ring, one whose mental subjugation would send no alarm bells ringing in the Matrix.” Leela’s eyes are empty, vacant as Rassilon’s mind roots inside. Here they stand, puppets of his plan in different ways. 

The choice is a simple one: comply or die. She made that choice every day for twenty years and called it surviving, called it biding her time. 

_There was once an idealistic politician._

_There was once a renegade — a brilliant student —_

_There was once a prisoner —_

_There was once a tyrant —_

_There was once —_

There is a Time Lord who is not an innocent, not a renegade, not a hero.

There is a Time Lord who is not the same old friend or the same young president as Before. There is a Time Lord who is not an Imperiatrix, not yet. 

There is a Time Lord, and there are so many things she is not — not kind, not fearless, not _whole_. 

There is a Time Lord who is too stubborn and too reckless for her own good. There is a Time Lord who isn’t sure of anything except if Gallifrey falls to Zagreus, it will be over her dead body.

Today, that is enough. 

_Before I die —_

For the first, but not the last, time in her lives, she stares down the Lord Rassilon and refuses to submit. 

The Doctor is gone.

Gone. Not dead. It’s an important distinction. Somewhere out there, in some other universe, he will keep fighting, keep striving to make the worlds around him brighter. A part of her smiles at that, even as another part of her aches, his last words still ringing in her ears. 

_Enjoy your corruption. I don’t want to see or hear anything from Gallifrey ever again._

He’s not dead, but something else is, she thinks. The last bit of hope that he would ever see her the way he used to, that she could ever be someone other than the friend-who-turned, who put on the mantle of the very people he had sworn to run away from. There are some decisions you can never go back from, their ripples casting forward through time until they are tidal waves, crashing down at her feet.

This is it. She has to draw her line in the sand somewhere. These are the last moments she will spend missing him, wishing for the kind of easy camaraderie that’s long since broken. Her past is not a painting; she cannot step back inside it. 

She straightens her collar and realizes quite abruptly that Leela is still _here_ , and is there something she should be doing about that?

“Well.” She clears her throat. “I imagine since you found your way so easily into my office, you’re quite aware of how to find your way back to...wherever you should be.”

Leela snorts. “Tired of me already? What happened to the beginning of a — ”

“That was — ” _A joke_ , she doesn’t say. Probably best not to. Her sense of humor has rather taken a beating over the years. “I was...I _am_ glad for your help today, but I assume you must have more things you wish to do with your day other than…”

“Other than getting possessed by a long dead Time Lord?” Leela’s tone is thick with distaste.

She snorts. “Well. Yes.”

There is a long pause, and then Leela sighs, shaking her head. “I still find it hard to believe that you traveled with the Doctor.”

“Hard to believe?” 

“I have lived on Gallifrey for many years now. Time Lords care very little for any part of the universe outside this bubble of yours. The Doctor is very unusual among your people.”

“I am not _most_ Time Lords either.” Her eyes flash in indignation, talking points about attempted visa policies and diplomatic alliances hovering on her tongue. She is _not_ insular, she has traveled through more than one universe, and she —

“Are you not? So why is it then, that you dismiss anyone who is not like you?”

“I — I — ” Leela’s bluntness, the openness of her disdain for Time Lord society — it’s so oddly disarming. How can anyone go through life saying exactly what they mean? 

The silence stretches out between them, and Leela raises her eyebrows. 

“I may have misjudged you,” she admits. “Sneaking into my office on your own was quite ingenious, and you were quick on your feet when we were cornered. Although I have to say, I do prefer it when you’re not cornering _me._ ”

“I too prefer having control of my own mind and hands.” Leela’s expression darkens for a moment before she tips her head in acknowledgement, the small smile on her face surprisingly forgiving. “And I appreciate your words, even if you do not entirely mean them.”

“ _Well._ ”

“You are a politician, is lying to people not part of your job?”

She opens her mouth to snap back before she sees the glint in Leela’s eyes. She’s _teasing_. 

She crosses her arms, making a vague sort of scoffing noise. “Oh, _very_ funny. And now that you mention it, there are plenty of actual parts of my job that I should be getting back to. There will be quite a lot of cleanup from this incident alone.” She’s starting to develop a headache just from _imagining_ explaining to Narvin that the ancient consciousness of Rassilon nearly unleashed a being of pure anti-time on a divergent universe. 

“Romana,” Leela says, and the name sounds strange in her voice. “I may have misjudged you, too.”

“Really?”

“You are not _as_ rude as I thought.”

“You do realize you’re speaking to the President of Gallifrey, yes?”

Leela rolls her eyes. “You may have your titles and your fancy headgear, but you are no more or less important than I or anyone else am. There is no reason that I should guard my words around you any more than any other Time Lord.”

“Oh, you wouldn’t last five microspans at a meeting of the chapter houses. It’s _endless_ decorum — really, you can insult someone by speaking in the wrong order, or sitting next to the wrong person, or — ”

“That is silly,” Leela says, her eyes far off. “All my life people have tried to tell me who I can be. There are always unspoken rules that they say everyone must follow, things people are expected to do or not do. That does not mean I have to listen.”

“Lucky for you,” she mutters. “But some of us are expected to follow the rules more than others. It comes with the titles and the fancy headgear.”

Leela studies her, her eyes somehow piercing. “You stood up to Rassilon, even when it could have cost you your life. I do not think you bow to what other people expect of you either.”

She blinks, startled.

_Don’t I?_

Isn’t that all she’s done, tried to give people what they expect to see? The President who is never haunted, never hurting, always able to bear the weight on her shoulders. The young Time Lady whose spirit hasn’t been broken. 

Or, when she fails at that, the cold leader the Matrix insists she become.

Every Time Lord, living and dead, is telling her who she was, should be, will be —

( _There was once a Time Lord who — There will be a Time Lord who —_ )

It hits her suddenly — _that’s_ why it sounded so odd, hearing Leela speak her name. It was the first time in so long that someone has said _Romana_ and not meant _Madam President,_ or _Imperiatrix, or the person you were, Before._

Leela only knew the Time Lord she met today. When she said _Romana_ , it sounded like freedom.

The time lock still waits. A decision still needs to be made.

She sits on the corner of her bed, still and silent, a night robe wrapped snugly around her. The day staff of the presidential palace have long since gone to sleep.

Is the middle of the night the wrong time to be making choices that could alter the fate of the universe? Is there a _right_ time for those types of choices?

Every last scrap of advice, warning, analysis, argument — they drum into her skull, mixing with a thousand scattered memories. 

_Their very presence threatens universal chaos._ How can she condemn an entire world to oblivion on the basis of a few powerful factions misusing time travel, and yet spare all of the Daleks when they are so much more of a threat to the universe?

But if erasing the Daleks will destroy all of time anyways —

_There is an opportunity here._

_Your duty, like mine, is first and foremost to protect and serve Gallifrey._

_Enjoy your corruption. I don’t want to see or hear anything from Gallifrey ever again._

_The question is, can your Presidency handle more than one political problem at once?_

_What_ are _you seeking to accomplish?_

_Before I die —_

She drops her head in her hands.

She knows what her decision is, of course she does. If she’s honest, she’s known what she has to do all along. To unravel the chronology of the universe would always be the more unforgivable sin, no matter how much it will eat at her every sleepless night for the rest of her lives, that _she_ was the one who let the Daleks go free. 

She curls in on herself, nails biting into her skin, tears stinging in her eyes. The despair wells up in her throat, threatening to choke out everything else. How much longer can she convince herself that there must have been a _reason_ she survived? How much longer can she pretend she’s doing the right thing? How much _longer_ can she keep fighting these same fights? 

_You stood up to Rassilon, even when it could have cost you your life._

Is it worth something, to look her enemy in the eye, no matter how powerful, and refuse to submit? Is it worth something, to spend the rest of her lives trying to make up for those years when she chose to comply rather than die, when she conceded to being one more cog in the Dalek machine? 

Would it be worth anything, to rule at the head of this world and try, _really_ try again, to make it so much more than _not the Daleks?_ To keep fighting, keep working, to scrub out Gallifrey’s own less violent, but no less potent, xenophobia and build a world that stands triumphant alongside its allies, that embraces a coalition of temporal worlds and ideas and peoples? Is it worth anything, to believe that if she gives everything left of her, maybe future generations will be better than she ever was?

What does she want _Romana_ to mean, here, now?

There is a Time Lord who doesn’t know if she can still do any good in the universe. 

But this is not the end of her story. 

The High Council chamber is restless when she enters. The group gathered is beyond the actual voting members of the Council itself, and includes the Under Cardinals, advisors, prominent chapter members, and an assortment of additional staff. 

This is the first meeting of the upper echelons of Gallifreyan society after the return of the Daleks. 

This is a _moment_ , a tipping point. She’s felt it stirring in the air these past many months: the fear of the past — Archetryx, the Dalek invasion, even the anti-time incidents, for those aware of them. The uncertainty towards the future — who can Gallifrey be in this ever more connected universe?

( _There was once a planet that — There will be a planet that —_ )

The Time Lords are teetering on the edge of something, and if she seizes it —

She breathes in, out. There is still an opportunity here. 

“Gallifrey suffered a great shock a year ago. Our own barriers were breached. Our Citadel, the very heart of our power, was invaded.” 

“We survived. We pushed back the invaders who threatened our world and showed the universe that Gallifrey will not be intimidated.” _Survived. Survived._ The word reverberates around the chamber, and its weight presses against her. _Survived._

“But Gallifrey cannot be the same after such an attack as it was before. We can’t simply rebuild the same walls and hope all will return to how it once was. There are enemies that threaten us, and there are also time faring races who are equally threatened. Who suffered far worse devastation from the Daleks.” 

Her hands don’t shake. They don’t. 

“We have a chance here to rebuild our world into a better one. A shining example to the rest of the universe, one that is strengthened by its alliances.”

Her feet pressed firmly against the ground, her gaze sweeps her audience. Some enthusiastic, some mildly supportive. Some skeptical, some furious. 

“Because a world like ours cannot stay cut off from the rest of the universe and hope to thrive.”

She has stumbled, she has fallen. She has blood on her hands and ghosts in her mind, and that will never leave as long as she lives. 

She has risen, too. She has defended her world, she has won her small victories, and now she has to look at the bigger picture. No longer can she be content with nudging legislation here and there, one step forward before sliding two steps back, letting herself be nudged in return by the other political players on this chessboard. _She_ is the President of Gallifrey. And if she is going to be different, be _better_ , she has to be unafraid of writing her own vision of the future. 

There is a balance. She will be audacious and strategic, bold and diplomatic. She will fail and win and _try_ and maybe at the end of her lives, it will have been worth something. 

“Now,” she says, glancing down at her newest agenda. “Let’s get started, shall we?”

_I am Romanadvoratrelundar_ , she says, and the next chapter begins.


End file.
